Dance with the Devil and His Daughter
by Michael Serpent
Summary: Dark fic. Harry and Draco are professors at Hogwarts, bickering but firmly becoming attracted to each other. Sort-of-dead Bellatrix makes things difficult by trying to resurrect her father Lord Voldemort, with the help of her sort-of-dead half sister Narc
1. Rain

**Dance with the Devil and His Daughter**

**1. Rain**

"Not the wolfsbane, you stupid brat! Doesn't it say clearly in the instructions that you should use dragon blood instead? Huh?"

"Y-yes, s-sir. Sorry, sir."

"Now drag your lazy ass down here and get the proper ingredients, before you make a complete fool of yourself, Abercrombie!"

"Yes, sir!"

It was a rainy Wednesday morning. Draco Malfoy strode about his classroom, snarling and swearing at his students, being even more frightening than Professor Snape had ever been. He was now having a group of sixth year Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs under his surveillance, and he was close to strangling each and every one of them. He would have been almost happy to have even one student with brains, but it seemed that he was doomed to suffering from brainless idiots during the whole double lessons of Potions he was teaching.

"Zeller, what exactly do you think you are brewing here?" he scowled at one of the Hufflepuff girls. "Have I not told you that Confusing Concoction should be silver green, and _not pink_?"

"Oh… yes… I'm sorry, professor. I just thought…"

"Obviously you did not think anything at all –except that ruddy Valentine's ball next week. Ten points from Hufflepuff."

Rose Zeller sank back in her chair, and Draco Malfoy continued seething around.

Oh, how in Merlin's name had it all ended up to this? Wait –Draco knew _exactly how it had all ended up like this. He was the new Potions professor of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry solely because of the circumstances that had taken place three years ago –Harry Potter beating Lord Voldemort in the final battle. _

It had been a long and hard war, and many witches and wizards had died. His parents, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were dead. His aunt Bellatrix was dead. His friends, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle were dead. Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson were dead. Lord Voldemort was dead.

And damn it, Professor Snape was dead, which made Draco Malfoy the only person in the Northern Britain who could master at least some amount of the Potions knowledge that Snape had. 

Draco threw a distasteful look at Gabrielle Delaour's badly chopped mandrake roots and ignored her apologizing glances. In his mind he sometimes cursed Dumbledore for taking him in. Despite the fact that he was only twenty years old, he was already a Potions Professor _and_ the youngest Head of House in history. He had inherited that title from Severus Snape, too. Twenty rapid years, and he was already the Head of Slytherin house, with all the worries and responsibilities and advantages included. The only thing he did not regret was that he had gotten out of Azkaban.

Draco held the urge to massage his temples as he heard Abercombie's cauldron explode behind his back.

"Twenty points from Gryffindor," he sighed, and strode over to his desk.

There was a thick pile of parchments, waiting for his attention. Most of them were letters from the students' parents that needed answering. Draco took a nip from his Calming Potion vial and decided to deal with the annoying inquiries later that evening. Now he needed to concentrate on surviving through the first lesson of the day.

* * *

It was indeed a rainy Wednesday. And not even beautiful –it was soggy, foggy and drenched. And grey. Harry did not like grey –it reminded him of some things he wanted to forget.

Harry Potter was watching out of his living room window, seeing how the inhabitants of the little Hogsmeade town tried to find shelter from a strengthening shower.

"It's really miserable, isn't it, Hedwig?" he asked, smoothing the silky feathers of Hedwig's back.

The owl hooted gently, then starting off and flying a round across the spacious room. Harry followed her tour with heavy-lidded eyes, smiling sadly.

"Do you like Shrieking Shack, Hedwig? I know it's a bit shabby still, but look how much space you've got."

Harry eyed tiredly the room. Two old, faded oriental carpets were covering the wooden floor with their dark green softness. Three armchairs stood in front of the grate, each of them different colour –one red, one black and one green. A dark wooden table was situated beneath a portrait of Sirius Black, in the most shadowed corner of the room. The photograph album of his parents lay on top of it.

Harry sighed desolately at the view, and conjured up a cup of warm camomile tea.

"Imagine, Hedwig… I'm only twenty years old, and I'm already an Auror. What do you think about that?" he smiled.

Hedwig hooted again, affectionately, now sitting on the mantelpiece, spreading her left wing elegantly.

"Only that there's nothing for me to do right now," Harry sighed. "There's no Dark Lord rampaging around anymore. And I don't feel like wasting my time in trying to find possible Death Eaters that might've survived. After all…" Harry yawned, "…it is already three years."

Harry's thoughts were interrupted when the flames in the grate intensified and grew taller. Instantly he collected himself, masked his features with a warm grin and pretended to be happy to see his best friend. 

"Ron!"

"Yes, it's me again, mate," simpered the redhead from the fireplace. "How are you doing, Harry?"

There was a dark shadow behind Harry's eyes, but it was carefully covered with the rim of the tea mug as he took a comforting draft from it. 

"I'm just fine. What about you? And Hermione?"

"We're both fine, I suppose," Ron grinned lopsidedly. "We're just so busy at the Ministry these days that I hardly see her."

Harry tried to create a smile that would look understanding. Surely enough, rebuilding the Ministry of Magic couldn't be a job easily done. And with the strict Hermione Granger leading the whole procedure with the sloppy Ludo Bagman and the overly-complying Arthur Weasley, it was certainly doomed to be catastrophic.

"Is Hermione still insisting upon a department for the rights of the half-breed?" Harry faked to be interested, although in truth he willed the conversation to end.

"Yeah, and I think she's finally got it through, too," Ron said.

"Well, that's good news indeed," he smiled, so widely that his cheeks hurt. In truth, he felt like punching Ron's head that was floating above the flames. 

He did not know exactly why. It had been like this since the war had ended –he had just suddenly grown tired of every contact to his best friends.

"I've missed your company," Ron continued, smiling goofily. 

"Well, really Ron, you've been popping in and out of the flames at least thrice a day," Harry harrumphed.

"There's actually a reason why I wanted to talk to you tonight, Harry," Ron said, looking a little confused, obviously noticing that everything wasn't right with his friend, after all.

"Okay," Harry sighed, curling in a small heap, sitting on the soft carpet, facing Ron and sipping his tea more eagerly. "What is it?"

"I just wanted to tell you… I am coming to visit you in three weeks, when I have my winter holidays. So be prepared to throw a fair party and buy lots of butterbeer!"

"Er…"

"Hey, I got to go now, mate," Ron said and turned his head, as if glancing over his shoulder that wasn't there. "I think Oliver called me, he wants to have a word about the details of the Department of Quidditch. Well, promise to write to me soon, will you? I want to hear more often from you."

"Uh, sure, Ron," Harry nodded. "Whatever."

An instant relief soured over him as Ron's head disappeared and was replaced with normal, orange merry flames.

"Whatever…" Harry spat. He banished his tea mug with a Vanishing Spell. 

He stood up and headed for the bathroom, wanting to take a shower. Long and calming shower…

When had his life started to feel this abysmal?

* * *

The rainy Wednesday was not affecting one certain escapee, who was sitting in front of a crackling fire, wearing a heavy red velvet gown and a black shawl. She was fondling a shining, golden locket that was hanging from a golden chain around her neck, and her expression was dream-like and distant.

Bellatrix Lestrange was very satisfied with the way things had ended up with her. Despite her husband, Rodolphus Lestrange, had died in the Second War, she thought she was quite well off. She had good connexions in the right circles, which helped her acquire a trustworthy Secret-Keeper, and plenty of money, which allowed her freedom. She was now sitting in the cosy living room of the mighty Dolohov Manor, Antonin Dolohov's residence in Wiltshire. But Antonin was dead now, as was his wife. Oh, and just to mention –everybody thought that she, the crazy Bellatrix Black Lestrange, was dead, too.

Bellatrix listened to the rain that pattered against the roof stiles. Far away, she heard a horse carriage coming closer, and decided it must be her sister, Narcissa Malfoy. She picked up the medallion again, smoothing the sleek surface lovingly, before suddenly snapping it open.

There, inside the little medallion, were two pictures. One was from Thomas Marvolo Riddle, and the other one was from Lord Voldemort in his rising days. Bellatrix fondled the pictures with her long-nailed forefinger. She smiled a sad smile, one that could be compared to Harry Potter's, if caught on a Christmas day.

"You know I will bring you back to life. Just wait for me, father."

She snapped the medallion shut, and returned to stare at the fire. Her eyes got a far-away gleam, and she travelled through her memories to the day when she had first heard from her mother that Mr. Black really wasn't her true father. 

She had been eleven years old when her mother had bluntly told her how she had been the Dark Lord's mistress for several years, despite she was married to Mr. Black. Bellatrix, being so young, and loving Mr. Black with all her heart, had been very upset. But after a couple of years, when she had realised what kind of a powerful man the Dark Lord actually was, she had started to feel proud of her true father. She had insisted upon a meeting with Voldemort, and received one. 

She had been thirteen years old when she had gotten her Dark Mark. She had been the first one ever to get it, the very first of the Death Eaters, and that had made her feel special. Bellatrix had loved her real father from the moment they first embraced. And yet, not one soul except her mother, her half sister Narcissa and the Dark Lord, ever knew this little secret of their relationship.

Bellatrix had many times wondered why nobody had ever questioned why she looked so much different from her sisters. Narcissa, with her pure white hair and bright blue eyes, was something totally different than Bellatrix with her ink-black locks and shadowy, dark grey eyes. Andromeda, being a Metamorphmagus, and having a cute, round freckled face, was strikingly different from Bellatrix, whose skin was paler than moonlight, and face elegantly sculptured. Just like young Tom Riddle's.

But none of that mattered anymore. Today, Bellatrix Lestrange was an isolated, strange bird. She was thirty-eight years old, and had everything she had ever wanted: wealth, beauty, brains and power. Oh, and most importantly, the appearance of being dead. 

If somebody saw her these days, they might say she was a bit mad, with her ever-changing moods and evil, scheming nature. But that didn't bother the woman at all. She was just like her father, and she loved it that way. Voldemort had also noticed this, and had started to call her playfully just Bella, to remind her how much he appreciated her. This thought brought a genuine smile on the full, sinful lips of Bellatrix.

"I will resurrect you, Father. I promise you. And it will be very soon."

* * *

Draco Malfoy dropped half dead on his four-poster, burying his head deep against his pillow. It was only three hours from the time when he woke up, but already he felt ready to crawl back under the quilt. The first two hours of Wednesday's Potions were over.

"I. Hate. My. Life." he mumbled against the suffocating pillow canvas. "I hate Gryffindor and Hufflepuff… Fucking annoying, stupid little horrors… How can they possibly be so _slow_…? I mean, honestly…"

Draco groaned when he heard a knock on the door. Looking more than a little wearied, his bright hair sticking out in every direction, he dragged himself up from the bed and toddled across the room to let the intruder in.

"Headmaster Dumbledore," he acknowledged.

"Professor Malfoy," Dumbledore gently smiled at the tow-headed boy. "Might I come in?"

"Yeah, sure…" Draco opened the door a bit more and gestured the old wizard enter the room. "Please, sit down."

"I see you're rather successfully started your Wednesday, again," the Headmaster's eyes twinkled.

"Very successfully," Draco grunted, but all the same allowed himself a little, amused smirk. "How did you know?"

"Well, it is all written over your face, Professor Malfoy," Dumbledore smiled, "Was it Abercrombie again?"

"Among others, yes," Draco sighed and poked the fire in his grate to grow a bit larger. "They're hopeless dunderheads, the whole lot of them."

Dumbledore seated himself in an armchair and fumbled his pockets for a lemon drop. "If I recall correctly, my dear Draco, Professor Snape used to have similar problems with your age class, as well."

"Of course," Draco grinned. "With that hopeless Longbottom…"

"Yes, Potions was not his thing, I am afraid," the Headmaster said, "But you must acknowledge he is a good Herbology professor after all."

Draco looked sombre. "Yes, he's a good teacher in that subject, I must admit. But I only wish he wouldn't have his chambers so close to mine. You know how he snores at nights, so that the whole castle shakes…"

"Oh, that is exactly why I wanted to come and talk to you, Professor Malfoy."

"Really? You've really heard his snores, too?" Draco asked, flustered.

"No, fortunately I have not," Dumbledore simpered. "What I was going to say is that Neville is going to get Hagrid's old hut for himself, as he has so often requested, and will be moving in tonight."

"Good," Draco grinned, happily, "Then I shall have the whole end of this aisle for myself!" 

"I'm afraid that won't do, my dear Draco. Namely, I have asked a new professor to attend the school, and he will be getting Neville's old rooms."

"A new professor?"

"Yes. If he accepts, he shall be teaching the Practical Defence. And he is an old… acquaintance of yours."

Something nasty began to grow in Draco's stomach. No, it could not be… 

"I'm waiting a reply from Harry Potter, Professor Malfoy."

"What?" Draco whined with pained voice. "Potter?"

"Yes," Dumbledore smiled, "Potter."

"But… but…"

"I'm sure you'll be getting along wonderfully," Dumbledore patted Draco's shoulder.

Draco merely gave him a disbelieving and angry look before rising up and heading straight for his well-equipped mini bar.

* * *

"Listen to this, Hedwig," Harry shouted rather loudly at his owl, which was currently in a different room than him. "Headmaster Dumbledore wishes me to teach Practical Defence at Hogwarts."

Harry was lying lazily in his bed, sprawled on his back without anything but a towel around his waist. He had just had a calming shower. The shortly arrived letter was crumpling in his hand.

"He says that since I already have some prior experience from my school days… Hedwig, where are you? Come here."

Somebody would have thought it rather insane, talking to an owl like she was a real human person. But Harry Potter had never been normal, now had he?

"I think I'm going to accept," Harry continued, staggering in the living room in his search of Hedwig, "Mainly because I'm so damn bored, but also because I miss that place. Hogwarts…" Harry jumped over his jeans he had thrown carelessly on the floor, "Hogwarts is like a second home to me."

He found Hedwig sitting on the living room windowsill, looking out in the grey day.

"You want to go out for a stroll?"

Hedwig nibbled Harry's forefinger and ruffled up his feathers.

"I know it's horrible out there but you could deliver Dumbledore my answer," Harry smiled and walked at the wooden table in the corner. Carefully, he pushed the photograph album aside and took out a piece of parchment and a quill from the drawer. He concentrated, furrowing his brows, ignoring the rain that was still whipping the windows from the outside.

_Headmaster Dumbledore, _

_I have thought about your suggestion and am pleased to inform you that I have accepted. I will arrive at the school tomorrow morning and can start my lessons straightaway. _

_Well then, until tomorrow. _

_Harry._

Grinning, Harry sealed the parchment and attached it to Hedwig's leg. Then he performed a Drought Charm on the letter to keep it dry during the sopping wet journey.

"Off you go, Hedwig! Oh, and don't forget to send my love to Malfoy!" Harry sneered, being sarcastic, like so often nowadays. "I bet he's thrilled with this news!"

Yawning, Harry staggered into the kitchen, wanting to have a cup of real Muggle coffee.

* * *

"Hello Narcissa… Feeling still alive?"

"Did you have a boring day, Bella?" 

"Why so?"

"It's just that you haven't mentioned my physical state at least in two weeks, you bitch."

Narcissa Malfoy sailed into the living room, carrying a basket of food, mostly home-made goodies she once used to send her son, Draco, to Hogwarts. Bellatrix followed her ghost-like form, pale as the brightest of angels, and her eyes that were as dead as stone. And surely, if one looked really close, they could see thousands of tiny scars across Narcissa's smooth skin, left there by the curses the Aurors had cast on her. 

Only the tiniest amount of Veela blood in her veins had made her survive the Second War in the first place. She was now under heavy medication, drinking vialfuls of different potions in order to keep her frail form together. But not even the finest of potions could have saved her soul. No. Narcissa Malfoy was dead inside, if not for one faint emotion, aimed towards her only son.

"You still think of telling Draco that you're alive?" Bellatrix asked, smiling wanly.

"Every day," Narcissa exhaled, her voice thick with longing. "But I think it's better for him not to know. He's doing great, you know."

"Let us not talk about that anymore," Bellatrix frowned. She really didn't appreciate Draco Malfoy's career choice as the Potions master.

"You're right," Narcissa said. "So… What have you been doing?"

"Oh, I've been planning," Bellatrix said enthusiastically.

"Nothing new there," Narcissa conjured up a tea set, looking pensive. "And have you already come up with anything? You do know it has been already three years. It's not healthy for you to dwell in the past. Thomas is dead."

Bellatrix' eyes flashed with anger, "Don't ever say that, Cissa. Don't fucking ever say that!"

The blonde Malfoy sighed, giving her half sister a peanut butter sandwich. "I apologize."

The rain started to beat the window glasses even harder than before. Narcissa Malfoy closed her eyes, hoping that some news from their Secret-Keeper would reach their ears soon. Bellatrix slowly ate her sandwich, eyeing the fire.

"I must bring him back to life, Cissa," she whispered. Her face was blank, striped with coal-black strands of hair, and it was clear that she was tired with her life. "Tom was everything to me. Everything! He was my source of inspiration, my source of ambition. Somebody who I looked up to. Somebody who I loved. He was… He was my father."

"I know," Narcissa whispered back, looking sadly at Bellatrix, the sister she loved like she was a full one. "And I miss him, too."

…TBC…


	2. Old Friends and Enemies

**2. Old Friends and Enemies**

Quarter to seven on Thursday morning, after two hours of prolonged sleep, Draco Malfoy was ready to leave his luxurious chambers for the breakfast. He scanned his reflection from the mirror, crossly noticing how the skin beneath his eyes was rather bluish, thanks to bad sleep and bad eating. Oh, and thanks to his morbid mental status, too. He brought his fingers through his hair that was slightly tousled despite he had just brushed it and frowned, but yet he didn't find the energy to fix it. He just let it be, let it fall over his eyes as a brilliant white veil. He also decided to leave the top two buttons of his white collar shirt open, and threw his formal, Slytherin-green tie on the floor, stepping furiously on it, leaving it there for the house-elves to pick it up if they dared. He had no intentions to put anything extra tight around his neck today when he was going to suffer his first-ever breakfast at the same table with Harry Potter.

Draco left his room, sulking. He could not understand why Potter had to come here like this, to destroy the serene environment of his safe haven. Hadn't the past war been enough traumatizing to Draco already? Not only had he lost his parents and friends, but he also had lost his zest for life. The Azkaban Fortress did that kind of things to people, no matter how short a period of time they were forced to live behind its walls. In Draco's case, it had been thirteen months.

Draco was well aware of what people were talking about him. They said he was crazy. The students, although being terribly afraid of him, were still gossiping about him in the hallways, giving him strange glances whenever they thought he was not watching. The girls said that there was something really twisted and scarily disturbing about Professor Malfoy, no matter how hypnotically handsome he was to all appearances with his saintly face. The boys, instead, said that their Potions teacher was very intelligent, almost a genius –but even they could not deny that he was often in the serious need of a good psychotherapist and loads of strong tranquillizers.

Slowly making his way towards the Great Hall Draco allowed himself to dwell in a momentary self-pity. When had he become such a freak? For he _knew he was a freak. He __knew that there was something terribly wrong with him –he understood that at some point, he had sort of lost the touch in reality. But the knowledge of the problem was not going to do much for him, for he really did not know what to do with himself. He was lost, like a sheep in a desert, and he did not know his way back home. Actually, he doubted there even was such a place like home for him._

"Good morning, Professor Malfoy," greeted a bright voice, "On your way to breakfast?"

Draco snapped out of his daze and turned his attention to Professor Lovegood, the current Arithmancy teacher.

"Morning, Lunatic," he grunted, but accomplished a little smile. "Why so happy?"

"Ah, three reasons," Luna grinned, and linked arms with Draco. "First, Louise, my thestral, do you remember her? –Yes, of course you do. Well, this very morning, she coughed out the slime ball that had been choking her for the past four days, and it was a real relief to me, I really thought she might be dying. Secondly, I found a bottle of Nargle Repellent from Hagrid's old things, and now my best summer bonnet is saved. And _thirdly_, I can't believe I didn't say this earlier, but anyway you must know that _Harry Potter is arriving today! Isn't that exciting? I almost thought I should wear my new set of robes but then I remembered I forgot them at home last weekend and father hasn't yet sent them back and… Oh, I just feel _so _hungry now! I wonder if we have those yummy croissants again because they taste __heavenly with pumpkin jam! Have you ever tried?"_

Draco listened to the flood of insanity with well-practised patience. To tell the truth, Draco did not feel at all regretful that he had met Miss Luna Lovegood this morning. Luna was namely the sole person in the whole wizarding world that always managed to make Draco feel rather normal. And that was really something, for Draco Malfoy certainly was _not_ normal. His uncaring and unfocused behaviour was just a prelude compared to his frequent panic attacks, persistent jumpiness, insane whims to do something very deadly, and his regular drinking sessions on Friday nights. 

Draco led Professor Lovegood into the Great Hall, and they sat down together to have their morning meal. Luna was delighted that there was a full basket of freshly baked croissants in front of her, whereas Draco was delighted that Harry Potter was yet nowhere to be seen.

* * *

Chilling air filled Harry Potter's lungs when he soared through the sky towards Hogwarts. The huge castle stood in the horizon, beautifully outlined by the orange morning sky. Harry inhaled deeply. There was no going back now. He had made a promise to Dumbledore, and he was not one to back from his words. 

He admired how Hedwig's beautiful, snow-white wings spread in front of him as the owl danced among the sunbeams, as if owning the whole world. Harry shook his head and smiled. Quietly he wondered what ever had possessed him to say yes to the job offer. It must've been a temporary but very serious brain aberration. But who knew, perhaps this silly caprice of accepting the vacancy would bring something new, something stimulating to his life, after all. 

Harry arrived at Hogwarts' main entrance ten past seven, feeling very weird. He levitated his trunk out of the peoples' way, nearby the wall, and set his broomstick on top of it. He felt suddenly very revolted with the idea of meeting old acquaintances, and bit his lower lip, wanting to feel some pain that would bring him to his senses again. He reminded himself that the Second War was over. It was over. It was three years already, and it was not reasonable to fear that he would encounter people who would swarm around him anymore, congratulating or asking for an autograph. Shuddering with the horrible memory, Harry took his steps towards Headmaster Dumbledore's office, and resolutely pushed the distracting thoughts aside. 

Dumbledore was more than happy to see him, Harry realised, when the moment he entered the Headmaster's room, he was served with all kinds of goodies in an instance. Also, Dumbledore personally changed the usual guest chair into a very comfortable sofa for Harry, before he even had the time to sit on it. This all annoyed Harry to a great extent.

"I don't need any special treatment," he said, his mouth turning to a lopsided, dry smile. "You should know that, Headmaster."

"Ah, yes, I know," Dumbledore smiled. "But I wanted you to feel comfortable, because we are going to have a rather lengthy chat."

Harry shrugged, looking bored. He examined the Headmaster with his sharp, green eyes that were now exposed to the candle light when Harry had replaced his glasses with contacts in the morning. The Headmaster looked very tired. No, a better word would be decrepit. How old was Dumbledore, again? Close to one hundred and forty, Harry mused, grabbing lazily a warm bagel from the plate that was placed on a side table beside his seat.

"So, how are you doing, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, sitting down with an achingly slow motion.

"I'm fine, as always," Harry answered, feeling dull. "How about you?"

"Fine, fine," Dumbledore smiled. 

Harry had the courage to cast a very disbelieving glare at the Headmaster, but did not say his doubts out loud. 

"So… Why me?" Harry asked instead, helping himself a glass of fresh, cold pumpkin juice.

"Yes, indeed. Why you? The truth is that I could not think of anybody else," Dumbledore confessed, smoothing his grey, hemp-like beard. "The Second War reduced the options cruelly. I admit it is a wrong thing to have the majority of our professors younger than twenty-five years old –young witches and wizards who have barely left the childhood behind. I regret they are forced to take these great responsibilities on their shoulders at such an early age. But there are no alternatives, and at least I had their assurances that they are doing this on their own free will."

"What do you mean there aren't alternatives?" Harry asked. "Great Britain and its surroundings are full of qualified teachers."

"I will not trust Hogwarts' education in the hands of foreigners. I want Hogwarts to be filled with its own people, who know the castle and its habits, and who have had their own learning here, in the excellent hands of our deceased professors Snape, Sprout, McGonagall, Vector, Hagrid and Hooch."

"Yes, of course," Harry grunted. He was waving his emptied pumpkin juice glass now recklessly in his right hand, holding it dangerously only from the edges.

"If you would please check this list of employees," Dumbledore handed a parchment to Harry, "you will notice I have tried to gather here a very qualified crew here." 

Harry took the parchment in his free hand and let his eyes wander down the neatly scribbled lines. 

"Oliver Wood as the Quidditch referee and flying teacher? He abandoned his career as a professional Quidditch player in Chudley Cannons?" was Harry's first question.

"It was not a hard decision for him," Dumbledore explained, "If you remember, Harry, he lost the ability to use his left arm properly after he got jinxed in the war."

"Oh, yes, now I remember," Harry said absent-mindedly, scanning down the list. "Miss Luna Lovegood as the Arithmancy teacher? She's but nineteen!"

"Regretful, yes. But she is very competent. The only thing that worries me is that she might be doing this against her true will."

"Neville as the Herbology professor, now that is something I _can understand," Harry mused. "And Remus Lupin, the Head of Gryffindor house and the Transfiguration teacher."_

"Professor Lupin will also tutor the non-practical part of your Defence Against the Dark Arts classes," Dumbledore said, "So that you could have more time to assist Professor Wood in Quidditch. Your job would be to show the players some of the moves Professor Wood is incapable of performing because of his injury. That is, of course, if you will do it."

"I will do it," Harry snapped, "I love flying."

"Good. Mr. Malfoy shall be very pleased."

"Malfoy?" Harry's head snapped up.

"Yes, Professor Malfoy. He has been helping out Professor Wood this far, but his responsibilities as the Potions master and the Head of Slytherin house are quite enough for him, even without the added burden of coaching Quidditch players. I am sure he will be pleased to have some more free time."

"So he is the Head of Slytherin, is he?" Harry looked sour. "Bet he loves the job, being able to tease innocent students, just like his predecessor."

"Now, now, Harry," Dumbledore smiled a little, offering to fill Harry's glass anew with pumpkin juice. "I think you are being a little bit too harsh."

"Malfoy was a Death Eater, the most devious one of them," Harry snarled. "I cannot believe you hired him. Is it a habit of yours, to forgive and employ former criminals, Headmaster?"

"Mr. Malfoy was not a Death Eater on his own free will, Harry," Dumbledore pointed out. "He was under his father's Imperius Curse."

"Whatever," Harry dismissed the subject, "Just the same to me. Just as fast as I see Malfoy, I'm back in my element again."

"Your element?" Dumbledore raised his bushy white brow.

Harry looked slightly crazy. "I have missed the adrenaline rush that a good fight can produce. You don't have the slightest idea how much I've missed the violent brawls I used to have with Malfoy."

"Harry, I can not allow you fight Professor Malfoy. The Second War is over now."

"With all respect, sir, but even the _first _war is not over between _us_."

"For Merlin's sake, Harry, you are both adults. And what is more, you are both teachers, showing the example for our students. I _forbid you two from fighting under this castle roof."_

Harry looked dissatisfied, but did not say a word to protest. He would find his ways to stir this petrifying mental numbness, one way or the other. And he was sure that Malfoy would not back out from the challenge.

"So, who was the DADA professor before me?" Harry changed the topic.

"Oh, she was Miss Chang, or Mrs Goldstein I should say," Dumbledore smiled, "She got just recently married and is now waiting for her first one to born, which obviously prevents her from continuing her career."

Harry's memories raced five years back, to the time when he'd been on his first and last date with Cho in the cosy café of Madam Puddifoot's. The corner of his mouth twisted, remembering how he'd soon after found out he was more attracted to men than women, and how confused Hermione and Ron had been after he'd refused to date any girl since.

"Alright, then," Harry said finally, standing up as if wanting to get the hell out of Dumbledore's oppressing company, "I'll start my first lesson tomorrow morning, if that's okay."

"That is just perfect," Dumbledore said, standing up as well. Then he gave Harry another piece of parchment. "Here's your schedule. It seems that you'll first train the sixth year Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs." 

* * * 

"Why? _WHY?" _

Bellatrix Lestrange stormed about the dusty Dolohov library, throwing yet another ancient-looking book about Necromancy against the wall. She sizzled with inner fury, her eyes casting a flaming aura of hatred all around her. Her blood red velvet gown had gathered some spider webs on the hems, and her long, dark curls of hair were tangled with too much of ripping them off.

"This cannot possibly be this difficult!" she shrieked. "Three years and nothing! _Not fucking anything!"_

"Calm down, Bellatrix," Narcissa said, with the cold Malfoy tone she had learned to speak with. "Necromancy is a very difficult area, I have told you that a thousand times."

"I don't _care if it's difficult! I am the most powerful witch of the whole United Kingdom, I am the heir of Salazar Slytherin and Lord Voldemort! I should be able to do _something_!"_

"Now you sound just like Tom when he was dissatisfied," Narcissa remarked, turning idly a page in her eight-months-old issue of Witch Weekly.

"Family weakness," Bellatrix sighed.

"What if you're making this purposefully too difficult?" Narcissa said, but didn't change her expressionless manner of speaking. "If there's nothing in the books, perhaps there's something in your memories. I believe Tom taught you everything he ever knew about Necromancy."

Bellatrix walked the thick, rat-eaten carpet back and forth. "Yes, he taught me all he knew. He told me how he survived in his ghostlike state, living from other people, living from the Unicorn blood. He explained me in detail how he got his physical form back from the blood of Harry Potter, in the ritual that Wormtail carried out. He didn't keep any of it a secret from me."

Narcissa turned a page on her magazine, "Perhaps the answer is in Harry Potter. You know, everything always seems to be about him."

There was a wild shriek of hatred from Bellatrix. "_Harry Potter_! The mere thought of him makes me _sick!"_

"Of course," Narcissa looked bored, gazing at Gilderoy Lockhart's picture in the middle opening. It was waving enthusiastically beneath the headline 'Lockhart Recovering'. "Dear Bella, everybody who is even remotely connected with the Order of the Phoenix makes you sick."

"Hmph," Bellatrix lifted her chin proudly. "Of course they do."

Narcissa didn't say anything, just turned the picture of Gilderoy away and started to read an article about her son, Professor Draco Malfoy. It was an interview, although rather short, and its purpose was to mull over the time Draco had spent in Azkaban.

"He did receive the Dark Mark before the Second War was over, didn't he?" Bellatrix peered at the article over Narcissa's shoulder.

"Yes, he did," Narcissa said, absent-mindedly. "He got it already when he was sixteen."

"And now he's working for Dumbledore, that old goof of a headmaster," Bellatrix was sarcastic. "How disappointing, don't you think, Cissa?"

"He hasn't got any choice, Bellatrix!"

"He has his enormous fortune! He is the owner the Malfoy Mansion in Wiltshire, Malfoy Lodge in St. Catchpole, plus four Gringott vaults full of gold galleons. He doesn't have to work a single day in his life with that wealth! Lucius, if somebody, knew how to take care of business, and secure the future of his son."

"Personally I would be very sad if Draco spent all this time alone at home," Narcissa protested. "It's good he's at Hogwarts. He's safe there, and he's got some company there."

"I think I don't need to convey how _I_ feel about Hogwarts, and the company it offers," Bellatrix snapped.

"And I don't want to hear it, so shut it," Narcissa replied.

"Bartemius told me all about it," Bellatrix continued, as if not hearing her sister. "You know, when he was impersonating that stupid oaf Mad-Eye Moody in 1994. If things were that badly then, I cannot imagine how they are now! Hogwarts School is just a joke. It has nothing to offer anymore. Gone are the days when _we were attending it –gone are the days of its glory. Batemius let me understand that the Headmaster has no clue whatsoever of what he is doing."_

"I don't like Bartemius. He transfigured my son into a ferret. He is a sick man."

"Cissa, he is now soulless and in St. Mungo's. He got Kissed. You do not _need to like him anymore."_

Narcissa frowned at the memories of the several past Death Eater gatherings, where Barty Crouch Jr. had been the most wonderful person on earth, in Tom's opinion. 

"Yes, I don't need to pretend anymore. He is soulless –worse than dead. And I certainly cannot say that I miss him…" Narcissa wondered out loud, but interrupted when seeing her sister's madly gleaming eyes. 

"Bella?" she asked timidly. "Are you alright?"

"Mmmmmmm… Yesss…" Bellatrix said, a smile spreading over her sinister, upper-class features. "I've never been better… Mwhahahahaha… Never better, dear Narcissa… Never… better…"

* * *

Draco was walking swiftly towards his Potions classroom from the Great Hall, on a very good mood since he had not seen Harry Potter at breakfast. According to Lupin, whose seat was thankfully placed between him and Trelawney at the teachers' table, Potter was enjoying his meal with Dumbledore, which suited Draco better than fine. Feeling quite relieved that the awkward reunion had moved on at least for five more hours, until the lunch time would come, Draco danced down the staircase with a calmed heart.

Draco allowed himself to think back to the time when he was a youngster, still studying his ass off in this very same magical school where he was now teaching. He remembered how he had been trying to get Outstanding grades from his N.E.W.T.s, trying to outshine Hermione Granger for the one last time. He remembered the last pranks he did to Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, and remembered their revenge actions as well. A small smile crept in the corner of his exquisite mouth as the images of him beating Potter in Quidditch the one and only time in their seventh year soared through his mind.

Draco scowled a little, trying to remember how Harry Potter had looked like in the past. Of course, nobody could ever forget that black, unruly hair, ugly eyeglasses and raw scar on his forehead. But other than that, Draco had no real image of Potter. That was probably because of the time he had spent in Azkaban. In the dark cell, guarded by three Dementors, Draco had learned to forget nearly everything that had once brought him joy, including Harry Potter's angry face. 

So, what would Harry Potter look like today? Draco cursed himself for cancelling the Daily Prophet. Surely, the gossip magazines would have written loads of stuff from the hero of the wizarding world, including pictures in the articles. Not that Draco would've spent time reading the text –he merely thought it could be less a shock to see his long-term adversary today if he knew even a little what to expect.

Passing by a glassy trophy cabinet and seeing his own reflection, Draco started to think the ways he himself had changed from the teenager days. Yes, he had grown and matured. He was now at least three inches taller than three years ago. He weighed eight or nine pounds more, and his body was developed more masculine. He did not gel his hair back anymore, but let dance freely over his shoulders. His eyes, even though sill deep grey, were now hollow, seen too much for his age, reflecting memories that should never have been gathered. 

Other than that, Draco could say he was about the same –outwardly that is. The Azkaban fortress had not hurt his angelical features too badly, which was a good thing considering how arrogant and self-absorbed Draco was. The only thing that really marred his perfect looks was the nasty black burn mark on his left inner arm –the Dark Mark of Voldemort. 

Draco rounded a corner deep in thought, looking at his feet. The result was that he hit his forehead painfully against somebody's temple.

"Ouch! Damn!" he hissed.

"Bloody hell!" the other person cursed.

The two young men staggered apart, leaning against the opposite walls of the aisle, glaring at each other murderously.

"Malfoy," Harry Potter acknowledged.

"Potter," Draco replied, chafing his hurt eyebrow and trying to get over with the surprise this sudden meeting had caused. "What an aching pleasure to see you again."

Harry stirred his eyes in the dimly lit dungeon corridor and eyed Draco with a sneer on his face. "Yes… What an aching pleasure."

"What the hell are you doing down here?" Draco asked, crossing his arms.

"None of your business," Harry answered, looking irritably composed.

Draco straightened up, taking an arrogant pose. "Alright then, Potter. None of my business. And now that this unavoidable encounter is finally over, I think we may return to ignoring one another."

"Fine with me," Harry smirked.

But, despite the obvious displeasure the both men were feeling, neither of them moved. Instead, Draco found himself eyeing Harry in an evaluating way, curiosity winning his pride, and saw Harry resolving to do quite the same.

Draco noticed that the former Gryffindor had changed quite a lot during the three years that had separated them. Harry did not wear glasses anymore, which was the first thing Draco noticed. Also, Harry's hair was now smooth and less wild, the shining black bangs falling nicely over his eyebrows, the longest ones reaching his jaw line from the back and the sides. Harry's style of clothing was different, too –he was wearing a stylish, copper-brown, skin-fondling chemise and expressive black suede trousers. And as to the most eye-catching feature of his past adversary, Draco really had to repress a jealous groan; Harry was at least three inches taller than him, and his arms were very nicely outlined with firm, strong muscles.

"What?" Harry asked, irritated. 

"What what?" Draco asked, as angry as his adversary.

"What do you stare at?"

"What do _you stare at?"_

They looked each other in the eye, invisible waves of odium swimming from the emerald pools into the dark silvery ones, and back again. 

"Good to know that you haven't changed," Harry finally said. "I was a little worried that I might find here a subdued, humbled Draco Malfoy."

"You didn't seriously think I'd be humbled, did you?" Draco snorted. "Really, you should know better than that."

"Yeah, you're right," Harry detached himself from the wall and smoothed his robes. "But it is still good to be sure that not everything's changed, you know. Merlin knows too much changes have happened in a too short period of time. I'd been devastated if you would've turned out downcast and nice."

"You don't need to worry about that," Draco examined his nails. "I'm the bane of your existence. Always have been, always will be. So don't get too cocky here at Hogwarts –I sure as hell won't worship you like the others."

"Cocky? Me?" Harry laughed, "I think it's your duty to be the cocky one."

"This conversation disturbs me," Draco pointed out. "We're almost civil to each other."

"Damn, you're right," Harry frowned. "We can't have that, now can we, Malfoy?"

"Certainly not, Scarhead."

"Rot in hell, Ferret."

"Shitface."

"Dipstick."

"Retarded lobster."

"Pansy-tits-lover."

"Eurgh, some limit, Potter!"

The two men burst out laughing, which horrified them both to no end. 

"Uh… er…"

"Well… um…"

"I got to go. Lesson starts soon," Draco cleared his throat.

"Yeah, sure," Harry bit his lower lip, still trying not to chuckle. "See you around, wanker."

"Just heave your sorry arse upstairs already, Potterbird, and get lost."

With these words they separated, and Draco was allowed to escape into the shelter of his cold dungeon classroom. 

What the hell did just happen?

* * * 

Draco Malfoy looked just as gorgeous as always, Harry decided. The same silky hair, the large grey eyes, both shot through with the finest of silver. The aristocratic nose and the high cheeks, the skin that was still smooth and white like porcelain –Harry could not believe that the person he just saw had spent over a year in the Fortress of Azkaban. But then again, the rumours said that even though Draco Malfoy was not outwardly blemished, his insides were completely shattered. Harry made a mental note to follow Professor Malfoy's behaviour more closely in the near future.

Harry was now in his chambers, arranging his clothes into his new wardrobe. His personal area consisted of two rooms and a bathroom, and a huge balcony on the Southern castle wall. Harry liked it there quite much, but the furnishings were purely horrible; a mixture of the colours red, gold, orange and green tarnished the whole suite. 

Unexpectedly, there was a knock on the door. Harry strode over to open the wooden entrance, allowing the former inhabitant of the quarters, Professor Longbottom, step inside.

"Neville," Harry greeted, adopting a grin on his face. "Come in."

"Hello, Harry," Neville said, looking at the black haired man shyly, as if making calculations if they still were good friends. "It has been at least two years."

"Time flows by so quickly that we hardly notice it," Harry waved his hand and gestured Neville to sit down in front of the fire. "I remember this castle so well that it feels like yesterday when I lived in here."

"You have changed quite a bit since we last met," Neville observed. "You're taller, and somehow… I don't know… more grown-up."

"I should say you look quite a bit different from your school years, too, Neville," Harry simpered, and went to open the heavy velvet curtains that covered the six gothic windows of his new living room. "You didn't wear eyeglasses back then, and you always shaved your stubble."

"Yeah, well," Neville shrugged, "I got these glasses about a year ago when I found out I had difficulties distinguishing the text from my favourite book."

"One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi?" Harry suggested, remembering some silly conversation from the past teenage years.

Neville looked delighted, "I can't believe you remembered."

Harry forced a smile, shut his eyes, and sighed. He was not used to this kind of pointless chit chat with people anymore –last time he had had long conversations was three years ago, when he had been asked for countless interviews with regard to the demise of Voldemort. After the agonizing three weeks he had endured it, he had withdrawn from public completely. He had bought the Shrieking Shack, renovated it, and shut its doors from the outsiders. He had chosen Hedwig as his only companion, if not counted occasional fire talk sessions with Ron, Hermione and Remus Lupin.

"Neville, why are you here?" Harry asked, hoping not to sound too brutal. 

"Oh, I came here to help you arrange your room," the Herbology professor beamed. "These rooms used to be mine, you know. And I thought you might need a hand."

"Well, now that you mentioned it…" Harry shifted his eyes disparagingly around the room, once again. "This décor is awful. I don't like Gryffindor red, even though it might've been your favourite shade, Neville. And I just abhor orange. Therefore, I really need to change the colours. And what is more, I don't want my four-poster to be situated in that wry joke of a bedroom; the whole bed has to be transferred here, in the spacious living room. Besides, this entire place needs to be thoroughly dusted."

Neville looked at him as if he'd suddenly grown three heads and bat wings. "Dusted?"

"Yeah, dusted. But first, the colours. Would you like to start with the carpets? Change them dark green, and make them somewhat fluffier. I'll alter the curtains."

"S-sure," Neville said, feeling obviously very nervous. "It's just that… Er… I was never too good at Transfiguration, if you remember."

Harry ignored Neville and moved his hand up, smoothing the thick, ancient velvet curtain. Then he muttered a series of quiet incantations and traced his fingers over the heavy canvas. Soon, the material started to change colour and become lighter.

"Wow," Neville gasped. "I remember the rumours about your wandless casting skills, but I never got the chance to see them in reality."

"Don't make a big deal about it," Harry grunted, "Everybody else already has. Besides, I don't want to think about anything that has something to do with the War."

"Oh, of course," Neville looked difficult, and blushed. "Well, um, I guess I could banish the dust from the room. My grandmother taught me this one excellent cleaning spell."

"You do that, Neville," Harry smiled, and turned to attend the rest of the drapes.

The boys worked for a while in silence, Harry changing the long curtains into soft, cream-white silk and Neville carefully tidying every nook of the room. While freeing the candlesticks, drawers, carpets, chairs, bookshelves and the mantelpiece from a thick blanket of filth, Neville quietly wondered why he had never noticed that the room was so messy before. Harry offered that he must have been so absorbed in Herbology that nothing else had mattered much.

"About Herbology, by the way," Neville said, "Would you like something green in this room? I have loads of beautiful plants and flowers in the hothouses."

"That would be nice," Harry admitted. He had just levitated his four-poster from the narrow bedroom to the spacious living room, and magically enlarged it a little. "But no carnivores, thank you," he added as a joke.

"Don't worry," Neville laughed, "Malfoy has already taken all the meat-eaters I have cultivated."

Harry raised his brows, "What? Why? Malfoy?"

"Yeah," Neville said, polishing a torch rack. "Don't ask me why. He's rather weird. Lost his marbles in Azkaban, they say. And I don't doubt it. No normal human being would choose carnivorous plants to decorate their chambers. I wouldn't want them anyway near me, if not in scientific purpose."

"Well, in Malfoy's case, it doesn't necessary mean that he's insane," Harry shrugged. "It's just his evil style. Being a badass ex-Death Eater and the heir of the Malfoy family require some sort of weirdness from the person. If he would've chosen some roses and anemones, everybody would've laughed at him." 

"Guess you're right," Neville admitted. "And besides, he did choose five full-grown palm trees, too, which is completely reasonable."

"Full grown palm trees?" Harry was astounded. "How do they fit in?"

"He chose Carpentarias and Queens, they won't grow taller than fifteen meters," Neville explained. "But of course, his chambers also have dirty high ceilings."

Harry remained silent, trying his best not to imagine how Draco Malfoy's personal rooms would look like.

* * *

Narcissa Malfoy was not a woman to consider anybody mentally disordered, especially if the suspected one was a member of her own family. Therefore she passed Bellatrix Lestrange's spine-chilling laughter and flaming eyes as a momentary flush of heat, or blamed the musty, unhealthy atmosphere of the Dolohov house for it.  

"Narcissa Black Malfoy, my dear sister, whom I love so much," Bellatrix said, with an ecstatic voice, "I have finally come up with a plan –a plan to resurrect my father's spirit from the depths of the underworld."

"Have you now?" Narcissa said, coolly, wanting to calm her sister down before she would hurt herself with all the mad ranting. 

"As you said, it is all about Harry Potter," Bellatrix continued, and laughed again like a madwoman. "_Harry Potter_!"

"Bellatrix, if you would care to explain yourself more accurately, please," Narcissa cast an annoyed look at her sister's direction. "What are you talking about?"

"Harry Potter," Bellatrix snarled, "was the killer of my father. And as far as I know, he still keeps my father's soul captured in his wand."

"What are you saying?"

"Don't you remember what happened after the Triwizard tournament six years ago, Cissa?" Bellatrix raved, "It was revealed that Potter and my father had brother wands, with feathers from the same phoenix bird, that ruddy Fawkes. So, anyhow, if Potter was able to draw the souls of Diggory, Jorkins, and his parents out of Tom's wand that night, I am sure it can be done the opposite way, too. I am sure we can find a way to draw Tom's soul from Potter's wand."

Narcissa had dropped her magazine and was now looking at her sister with curiosity shining from the wide, shiny-grey eyes that also her son had inherited. "You know, Bella, that almost makes sense! Continue."

"First, we need to find Tom's old wand. As far as I know, it is in the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts, protected by heavy jinxes, of course. Secondly, we must steal Potter's wand, and then, we're able to test if the _Priori Incantatem _effect still works."

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Narcissa interrupted, leaning back in her armchair, "Euh, actually, many things. Firstly, they were not _souls; they were _echoes_ that came from Tom's wand. Secondly, we are not strong enough to use those powerful wands –at least I am not. The wands wouldn't work in our hands. And thirdly, what are you going to do with the echo –or the soul as you put it- when it is released? It will vanish like steam in the air as soon as the connection is broken again."_

Bellatrix bit her lip, and angrily started to roam the library back and forth, the act she had already been doing the whole day. "Narcissa, I hate it when you doubt my plans. Don't you yet understand that I am Tom Marvolo Riddle's daughter?"

"Yeah, and I am Jack Sparrow. What's that have to do with anything?"

"That, my dear sister," Bellatrix approached Narcissa and smiled down at her, "has to do with _everything_."

* * *

…TBC…


End file.
